Dear Body,
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I’ve neglected you. I’ve abused you feeding you junk food. For the past year I’ve replaced daily workouts with daily splurges. Instead of running I sat at the computer. Instead of hitting the gym I hit rock bottom giving up on myself.
I ate candies and gummy bears and ice cream. I delved in burgers and French fries and pastries. Who cared that they creped up on me, pound after pound—I didn’t. I told myself after I turned 40 that it didn’t matter—I should finally indulge in those things I craved. And indulge I did. Eleven pounds later I hated looking in the mirror.
But no more.
I’m done.
Cleaned up my pantry and started working out. In moderation, which is something I have to teach myself how to do it. Take long walks. Starting two weeks ago my boss and I challenged ourselves to take the stairs (our office is on 7th floor) twice a day. We write down how long it takes us to come up. In a month we’ll raise the bar to 3 times a day.
Today was a good day. I treated myself to a coffee by walking to the Starbucks near my house, which is not quite near (1.8mi away). An hour later, my walk tracker recorded 3.6mi.
Numbers isn’t the reason why I do this, but because it finally hit me that if I give up on you, you will eventually give up on me. And you and I have to be BFFs forever, not enemies. I’ll give you healthy food, plenty rest and exercise, knowing you’ll burst with energy and fit in my clothes again.
Deal?
